Alaric doesn't see Isaac Blackwell again that day.
Not after the assembly. Not in the corridors that fill and empty between classes. Not in the library, where he spends the afternoon pretending to read while replaying that look in his mind the one that had felt less like curiosity and more like assessment.
He tells himself it doesn't matter.
People look at each other all the time at Ravenshade. Power draws attention. Survival does too.
Still, when evening settles and the campus lights flicker on, he's acutely aware of the absence.
It makes no sense.
The next morning, his schedule pulls him into a cross-department seminar held in one of the smaller lecture halls one of those spaces that feels neutral on paper but somehow always hosts the most carefully watched discussions.
Alaric arrives early out of habit.
The room is half-lit, the air cool and quiet. He takes a seat near the aisle, drops his bag at his feet, and opens his notebook. Around him, students filter in some familiar, most not. He recognizes a few faces from the assembly.
The door opens again.
Conversation softens.
Alaric doesn't look up immediately. He feels it first the subtle shift in the room's balance, the way attention redirects without being commanded.
When he does lift his gaze, Isaac Blackwell stands near the front, speaking quietly to the seminar moderator.
Up close, the man is even more unreadable.
There's no wasted movement in him. No unnecessary expression. His presence doesn't overwhelm it narrows. Like the air has been gently compressed around him.
Isaac takes a seat two rows ahead of Alaric.
Not beside Silveren.
Not far away either.
The seminar begins.
The topic is ethics in governance predictable, safe. The kind of discussion that encourages performance rather than honesty. Alaric listens, jotting down notes, answering when called on with careful restraint.
Halfway through, Isaac speaks.
It isn't long. It isn't dramatic.
He reframes an argument someone else made, stripping it down to its core with unsettling ease. The room goes quiet, people recalibrating around his words.
Alaric looks up despite himself.
Isaac's gaze shifts.
This time, it doesn't slide past him.
It lands.
"Do you agree?" Isaac asks calmly.
The question isn't challenging.
It isn't leading.
It's… direct.
Alaric hesitates for half a second, surprised not by the question, but by the assumption behind it. Isaac isn't testing him. He isn't putting him on the spot.
He's inviting a response.
"Yes," Alaric says, then adds, "but only if the system allows dissent without punishment. Otherwise, it's not ethics it's conditioning."
A few heads turn.
Isaac studies him for a moment longer than the exchange requires.
"I was thinking the same," he says. "Most people don't say it."
Then he looks away, just as easily as he'd looked at him in the first place.
The discussion moves on.
Alaric's pulse doesn't.
After the seminar ends, people gather in loose clusters, conversations forming and dissolving quickly. Alaric packs up slowly, letting the room thin before standing.
He's halfway down the aisle when Isaac steps into his path.
Not abruptly.
Not blocking him.
Just… there.
"Alaric Rowan," Isaac says.
Not a question.
Alaric stills. "Yes."
"You argued well yesterday," Isaac continues. "Under pressure."
Alaric blinks. "You were there?"
"I watch what's relevant."
The words aren't flattering.
They aren't dismissive either.
They simply exist.
"Thank you," Alaric says after a beat.
Isaac inclines his head slightly, as if acknowledging an equal. "You don't rely on permission," he says. "That's uncommon."
"So is noticing," Alaric replies before he can stop himself.
For the first time, something shifts in Isaac's expression.
Not a smile.
Interest.
"That's fair," Isaac says. "Be careful with it."
"With what?" Alaric asks.
"Clarity."
Then Isaac steps aside, clearing the path without ceremony.
The conversation is over.
Alaric walks past him, heart beating a little faster than it should.
Across the room, Asher Crowe watches the exchange with open fascination.
He leans back against a desk, arms crossed, eyes flicking between Alaric and Isaac and then, almost lazily, to Silveren Vale standing near the door.
Silveren hasn't moved.
He doesn't need to.
His attention has sharpened to a dangerous edge, gaze fixed on Isaac in a way Alaric hasn't seen before. Not confrontational. Not dismissive.
Evaluative.
Asher's lips curve faintly.
Interesting.
Later, as Alaric crosses the quad under the glow of lamplight, he feels it again that subtle gaze, like someone's attention brushing against his back.
He doesn't turn around.
He doesn't need to.
From the steps of the administrative building, Silveren watches him go.
Isaac Blackwell is a variable.
Silveren doesn't like variables.
They complicate systems. They disrupt order. They introduce outcomes that can't be controlled through pressure alone.
And for the first time since Alaric Rowan arrived at Ravenshade, Silveren realizes the game has changed.
Not because Alaric resisted him.
But because someone else noticed.